


you look so perfect

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27406576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: His eyes land on Jonny, and his rage chokes in his throat. Dries right up and flips on a dime like a fucking chemical reaction. Jonny’s lying on his stomach in the middle of his bed, reading a book. He’s in nothing but those stupid, tiny black boxer-briefs, stretched tight over the swell of his ass. One side’s jacked, fabric pushed up so that his cheek’s just hanging out all casual, fucking taunting Patrick.It blazes through him so fast he goes dizzy—mindless animal want to mount, rut, claim, fuck.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 35
Kudos: 172





	you look so perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I uhhh stress-wrote porn 😅

The second Patrick closes the faucet, the room goes all quiet except for the thrum of the air conditioning and his own heavy breathing, deep inhale-exhales to try and cool the jittery edge of anger coursing through him.

He’d left the bathroom door open because he knows it pisses Jonny off, and he _wants_ to piss Jonny off, put that pinched look of displeasure right on his pretty, dumb face because Jonny’d been a right little prick tonight, nettling at Patrick and screaming his voice hoarse. 

Normally Patrick’s a prick right back, because he always gives as good as he gets—but there was something mean about the way Jonny’s face was twisting tonight, voice all sharp and barbed, cutting anger. Something ticked him right off. And Patrick can take it, usually, but Jonny really lit that spark tonight, got him going all dark and nasty inside, brewing to a boiling point until he can feel the urge to _slap, punch, ram_ itching down to the tips of his fingers. 

He flips the light off, the shitty fluorescent blinking out, leaving him standing in front of the mirror in the dark. It doesn’t really matter. He couldn’t see anything anyway, glass all fogged with steam—and he didn’t bother to wipe it down, because he knows what he’d see, knows his face is etched in tight frustration, jaw clenched.

The second he steps out into the room his skin breaks out into goosebumps. He’s shivering. Fucking hell, it’s November and he’s _shivering_ in his room, because Jonny has to put on the air conditioning instead of the heating—says he runs _hot_ or some shit, fucking crazy bastard. It’s fucking _loud_ , gasping on overdrive like an asthmatic after a hard run—Patrick didn’t realize when he was in the bathroom. It’s too much, too fucking much, and maybe it’s stupid but it’s tipping Patrick straight over the edge. He’s gonna kill him, he really is—

His eyes land on Jonny, and his rage chokes in his throat. Dries right up and flips on a dime like a fucking chemical reaction. Jonny’s lying on his stomach in the middle of his bed, reading a book. He’s in nothing but those stupid, tiny black boxer-briefs, stretched tight over the swell of his ass. One side’s jacked, fabric pushed up so that his cheek’s just hanging out all casual, fucking taunting Patrick. 

Jonny’s usually taut, golden skin stretched over muscle—but he’s pale in those secret parts of himself, stretches of soft cream that only he and Patrick get to see. No one else. It blazes through him so fast he goes dizzy—mindless animal want to mount, rut, claim, fuck. Get right in there, slide in deep. It’s good, so good that it shivers through him—feels the buzz down to his fucking toes, enough to make him stretch, clench, curl them into the grimy hotel carpet. 

Jonny doesn’t even look up when Patrick walks up, just keeps right on reading. It’s something in French— probably a classic, definitely pretentious and douchey. Jonny doesn’t look up even when Patrick drops on to the bed, scoots up and swings his legs over so he’s straddling Jonny’s ass, legs split open by the broad stretch of Jonny’s body and knees bracketing his sides. The only acknowledgement Patrick gets is the bunching of his back muscles, going all tense without Jonny’s permission. 

“Put that stupid book down,” Patrick says, low and quiet. Jonny doesn’t—just flips a page with extra snap because he’s just that petty. Patrick didn’t expect him to, of course. Jonny’s prissy little show of defiance just gets him hotter, fattens his cock up nicely and makes his balls all tight. It’s fucked. Patrick plucks the book right out of Jonny’s hands and tosses it to the side. Jonny doesn’t push back, yell, get in his face—and that’s how Patrick knows he’s really going for blood.

“What?” Jonny says, so pissy that it makes a sudden swell of laughter bubble up in Patrick’s chest. Patrick twists his fingers in Jonny’s hair instead, yanking his face down into the pillow, belly hot as he grinds it into the fabric a bit. He ducks to bite at the exposed knob of Jonny’s spine when he makes a startled grunt, nosing at the light tracks of spit he left behind.

“You were in a fucking mood today,” he says, breath ghosting over the wayward baby strands curling up at Jonny’s hairline. 

“You deserved it,” Jonny says cooly, somehow still on higher ground even though he’s the one with his face shoved in a pillow. God, Jonny makes him crazy. 

“Captain Cunt,” Patrick murmurs softly into the warm, salt-slick skin of Jonny’s neck, and it’s half-mocking, half-fond and half-infuriated all at the same time, even if it doesn’t make any mathematical fucking sense. 

Jonny jerks his hips back, probably to get Patrick off his back, but it just serves to snug up Patrick’s dick even harder against the crease of Jonny’s ass. Jonny can act as unbothered as he wants, but Patrick sees the way his fingers fist against the sheets, the slight hitch in his breath.

“Fuck you,” Jonny says, and it’s cold, dripping in contempt. It’s impressive, that he can make himself sound like that. But Patrick knows better, can’t help the smirk that curls onto his face when he nudges Jonny’s legs apart and they split open easier than a shot on an open net. 

“Nah,” Patrick says, “You don’t want that.” He finds it through Jonny’s underwear—that little pucker, so sweet and tight, already flexing under his fingers. Greedy. He strokes over it like it’s a clit, all circling and gentle pressure, and Jonny’s ears tip red-hot, embarrassed as he realizes what Patrick’s doing. Patrick grins—presses in, thumb broad and flat, backing off into a slow, dirty rub when Jonny finally goes lax, head lolling forward as he grinds back helplessly into Patrick’s thumb, chasing even the smallest point of contact. 

“That’s it,” Patrick encourages, knowing he sounds like a smug fucking asshole, but hey, _anyone_ would be if they had Jonathan Toews laid out in front of them all pinked up and pissed off and so, so hot for it. Jonny lets out an honest-to-god snarl when Patrick slides down on the bed and flicks his tongue over Jonny’s hole through his underwear. He’s even crabbier when Patrick starts making out with it, getting the cotton soppy with spit. 

Patrick ignores Jonny’s bitchy little whines because he’s a man on a mission—the wetter he gets it, the closer Patrick is to tasting _Jonny_ under his tongue rather than bland cotton. It’s not actually possible, but _fuck,_ he feels himself getting caught up in it—some primal part of his brain convincing himself that he can suck and kiss and tongue away the barrier. He’s really going for it now, the need to lick Jonny open driving his tongue work so hard it’s getting sore, slicking his chin up with spit, making his cock rut into the mattress— 

“Quit messing around back there,” Jonny snaps, jerking Patrick out of his lust-dumb fugue, but _bingo_ —there’s a tremor in Jonny’s voice, a crack in his stupid composure.

Patrick laughs right into the wet patch, presses his thumb in so it’s all tight against Jonny’s skin. “You want something Jon?”

Jonny cranes his head back, looking down at Patrick like a frigid fucking snob. “Want you to stop boring me,” he says, and it’s funny, so fucking hilarious that Patrick has to get up and flip Jonny over so his back is pressed against the mattress and Patrick can see every little thing that tells him what a fucking liar Jonny is, from his blown-out pupils to his flushed chest to his twitching abs. Yeah, Patrick likes those. He dips and runs his fingers over the grooves as he lowers himself over Jonny, brings his lips right by Jonny’s ear. 

“Like you’re not thinking about how much you want me to bend you over every time you look at me,” he whispers, drawing back just in time to watch pink bloom across the tops of Jonny’s cheeks and his scowl go nuclear. If Jonny were a cartoon character, there’d be steam coming out of his ears—it’s a funny fucking picture. But he doesn’t deny it, just mutters a quick “shut up,” and winces right after, because yeah. Weak fucking move. Patrick’s onto him. 

“Shut up,” Patrick echoes mockingly, unable to help himself from reaching down and grinding a deliberate palm over Jonny’s dick through his briefs, and _jesus_ , it’s hard as fuck, straining at the fabric like it’s gonna burst right through. “You gonna give me some other way to keep my mouth occupied?” 

Jonny doesn’t answer, just fucking stares off into the distance all moody—such a goddamn party pooper, like Patrick’s trying to force feed him cough syrup or something rather than give him a mind-blowing orgasm. Patrick bites at Jonny’s jaw. “Want my mouth, Jonny?”

Nothing, nada, _zilch_ , just stony silence, even as Patrick works little kisses against Jonny’s neck. The thing is, Patrick can feel Jonny’s pulse fluttering under his mouth, but Jonny’s as stubborn as an ox. He just looks blank as Patrick works his underwear off and flings it across the room, even though his cock is nice and sticky at the tip. The whole thing should be a turn off—he does not need to be working this fucking hard to get laid. 

But Jonny’s turned him into a crazy person, because as Patrick licks his way down Jonny’s chest and abs while Jonny continues to give him fuck all, all he feels is wild affection and arousal burning through him. “Jonny,” he sighs, nosing at the thin skin of Jonny’s groin, dragging his tongue right up in the crease of Jonny’s thigh. “Always so fucking difficult.” He knows he sounds far too fucking fond, but he can’t help it. 

Even a wet lick across the head of Jonny’s leaking dick isn’t enough to get him more than a twitch, and Patrick just laughs, because Jonny’s such a fucking _brat._ It makes Jonny glare down at him, watching stone-faced as Patrick works lower and lower, tongue laving over every dirty part of him. And then Patrick licks over his hole, and Jonny’s eyes flutter shut. “So it’s like that, huh?” he says, cocky when he dips the tips of his fingers in on a light press and Jonny contracts around him, breath stuttering. 

Jonny doesn’t say a thing as Patrick gets off the bed and strips, but he does watch—the metallic clink of the belt buckle, the soft woosh as it’s dragged through the loops, the telling thump as it hits the carpeted floor. His eyes are hot on Patrick’s skin—it’s crazy how much it gets him going, having Jonny watch him like that, having the full weight of that freakish focus dialed in on him. 

It makes everything _intense_ —even the quiet snick of the lube cap sounds significant, dirty-filthy- _r_ _ude_ , the implication of what he’s about to do to Jonny evident in the cool drizzle of slick on his fingers, the implication that Jonny’s gonna _let_ him evident in the quiet way he just _stares_ —still a little pissy and uptight, but not moving an inch. Legs spread all wide and hole bared. 

When he settles between Jonny's thighs—looks up and sees Jonny’s eyes all dark and teeth sunk into his plump bottom lip—maybe he's a little reverent. Whatever. Fucking sue him. Shit escalates when he gets his fingers inside, though—two off the get-go, drags them rough because he knows Jonny likes the stretch and burn, masochistic motherfucker that he is—always wants to take it harder than anyone else. Has to win at everything, even his own pleasure. Patrick gets him just right. Jonny moans and looks _furious_ at himself for it, clamps his mouth shut and gets fucking pouty about it—Patrick wants to own him down to the points of his beautiful teeth. 

“Come on, Jonny—give it up for me.” He whispers it right into the hinge of Jonny’s jaw, still so tight under his lips. He nuzzles at it a bit, ghosts his fingers up the tunnel of Jonny’s throat and clamps them into Jonny’s chin, fixes it until he gets Jonny’s eyes staring straight into his. Fucks into Jonny’s hole with his other hand hard while he does it just to see the helpless parting of his lips, the little pants of air escaping, unwilling. “It’s okay,” he soothes, running a nail down the edge of Jonny’s open rim, catching the vibrations of the resulting shudder against his skin. “I know you want it.”

And yeah, Jonny goes red at that, all shocked little moue and hot gasp, fine tremors wracking his muscles as he works to hold on to his facade of indifference when Patrick knows that all he wants is to be pounded until can’t think straight. “Go to hell,” Jonny spits, and Patrick gives it to him extra hard for that, a vicious rub against his prostate that has his dick spitting precome up his abs. 

Patrick grins, feral. “If I went to hell, who’d be there to take care of you, babe?” He withdraws his fingers from the tight suck of Jonny’s body and misses it immediately. Case in point—Jonny’s flexing at the gape the second he’s empty, just begging to be filled back up. He gives a comforting rub at the rim.“Who’d look after your little hole, give it what it needs?” 

Jonny lets out a hiss at that, shuts his eyes all tight. He hates it when Patrick starts running his mouth—it’s like his biggest pet peeve or something. He could even probably put it in one of those “get to know the Blackhawks” surveys that get printed every couple of years. It gets Patrick screamed at when he does it on the bench, and hell, it gets Patrick screamed at in bed sometimes too, but mostly it just gets him Jonny desperate and sloppy-hot loose, easy as a whore with how much he wants it. 

“Want my cock, Tazer?” he murmurs, keeping up a teasing circle around Jonny’s pinked up rim. “Want me to slip it in, give your little hole something to clench down on?” 

“ _Christ_ , Patrick,” Jonny gasps out, sound tearing out of his chest like it came from some base part of him, the same part that always makes him shudder around Patrick’s cock, clamp down like he never wants to leave. “You fucking _asshole,_ smug motherfucker, fucking hate you—” he chokes off on a moan when Patrick rubs the head of his cock all over Jonny’s hole, gives him the press of it, not hard enough to breach, but just hard enough for Jonny to feel the potential, the suggestion of a good fucking. 

“You were saying?” Patrick mocks, keeping his cockhead teased up against Jonny’s entrance. Jonny can be as difficult as he wants, but Patrick knows his boy, and his boy loves cock. Craves it in him. That need to be stuffed full—it always wins out in the end. Just as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. All he has to do is wait.

Jonny puts up a good fight, of course, same way he does on the ice. Patrick admires that about him, that iron will, steely determination—just makes it extra sweet when Jonny opens his legs for him. Jonny spends a few more moments glaring, jaw quivering with the force of his rage, _how dare Patrick offer to fuck him open on his fat cock_ —yeah, he’s a real fucking villain. When Jonny finally wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist, scowling like he just got told he’s gonna get bag skated, it’s a bigger rush than scoring an overtime goal. _Showtime._

Of course, now that Jonny’s finally gotten with the program, he’s gotta be bossy about it—digs his heels right into the dimples of Patrick’s back like Patrick’s a fucking horse he can tell to giddy up. Patrick rolls his eyes. “No backseat driving, dickhead,” he says, giving Jonny’s ass a sharp smack that floods the pale skin with red. 

Jonny doesn’t like that one bit, being told he’s not the one in control—it’s kind of funny, though, because he’s so fucking good at taking it. He tightens his powerful thighs around Patrick’s middle in warning and _shit,_ it’s kind of hot, honestly, but it’s also a dick move. Patrick’s probably gonna fucking bruise. Why the hell did he have to pick a lay that fights him tooth and nail? 

He buries himself in Jonny in retaliation, one hot, rough thrust that fills Jonny up to the brim with cock, and Jonny fucking _shouts,_ throwing his head back to expose the delicate arch of his throat and white-knuckling it against the sheets. 

“That’s what you get for not playing nice,” Patrick chides, and he thinks he should be given a fucking medal for keeping it together enough to chirp Jonny because _shit,_ Jonny’s so hot and slick and tight around him that he thinks his brain is gonna short out. 

He can feel Jonny struggling around his cock, the desperate quick-twitch of his hole trying to adjust. Normally, he’d maybe be a gentleman, give Jonny some time to accommodate his girth, ease him into the fat split—but Jonny’s been a real jerk today, so Patrick rewards himself by rutting inside Jonny as deep as he can, no rhythm and no purpose other than to stake his claim. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Patrick says breathlessly, trying to ease the hunching of his hips, because Jonny’s biting down on his lip and his eyes _closed_ again, too quiet around Patrick’s dick. Patrick wants Jonny mouthy. 

Jonny opens his eyes and _oh shit._ “What, did you want to talk about the fucking weather or something?” he snaps. But his voice is hoarse, wrecked. He looks all hazy and fucked-out, dumb on cock. It’s fucking _excellent._

The wheels are spinning, and Patrick can feel a smirk curl across his face. “Oh Jonny boy—is this getting you off?” he says all sing-song. He picks up the pace just to test it out, and _yeah_ , Jonny’s eyes flutter shut at the dirty grind of it. _Eureka_. He digs his fingers into Jonny’s sides and starts fucking _pounding,_ lifting Jonny’s hips into the thrusts. “Me using you like this, you like it huh?” he rasps, going all molten and awed when Jonny starts whimpering, all pathetic-sounding, _needy._

Patrick stops for a second, just to see what Jonny does, and holy fuck—he lets out an actual _growl_ , digging his heels in again and urging Patrick to fuck into him, use his body. So Patrick does, bracing his palms against the headboard so he can hold himself over Jonny and just fucking _give it_ to him, full force of his lower half powering his strokes. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Jonny whines, face all scrunched up and blotchy with pleasure—his cock is fucking dripping, getting him all messy, stuttered, breathy little moans catching in his throat to the rhythm of the headboard thudding against the wall. 

“ _God,_ you look so good like this,” Patrick groans, biting his lips when he dips his head down to look at the join of their bodies, Jonny’s tight hole gone all loose and red, stretched out around his cock, making room for Patrick inside him. He can see his balls slapping against Jonny’s ass, the dirty smacking of their skin so loud and hot it should be fucking illegal. “You should take cock for a living,” he says breathlessly because for one—yeah, he’s an ass. But it’s also fucking true—Jonny’s a goddamn wet dream come to life. He doesn't need the NHL to make bank. 

Jonny gives this angry little moan in response, but Patrick must’ve fucked the bitchiness right out of him because he just keeps fucking taking it, sweat pooling in his collarbones and muscled core clenching as he gets pounded without a smart little quip or noise of protest—just a litany of overwhelmed sounds of pleasure that Patrick interprets as _Patrick Kane is rocking my world with his big dick_. Now that Jonny’s prepped and primed and stupid on cock, Patrick does what he wanted to do most—he bends down to cover Jonny’s body with his own, hands braced on the pillow, and—

He kisses him, all slow and sweet. Jonny melts underneath him, arms coming to wrap around Patrick’s neck and fingers tangling into Patrick’s curls. He opens his mouth nice and easy in a way he never does, and _this_ is why Patrick does it, to hear those soft little sighs. It’s so, so good—a little sloppy. Slick mouths moving all greedy until Patrick’s lips are buzzing, and then they’re just breathing into each other as Patrick keeps pumping, cock sliding in so smooth and easy now. His balls are aching with the need to come, pour his release into the tight heat of Jonny’s body. 

“Gonna make a mess in you,” he murmurs into Jonny’s mouth, heat sparking through him when Jonny bites down on his lip. “Do you want it?” he asks, stroking through Jonny’s sweat-damp hair. Jonny lets out this really dumb noise in response, half-whine, half-groan—but Patrick wants to hear it this time, wants Jonny to use his words. “You gotta tell me, baby,” he urges, rolling his hips in a filthy roll, slow and deep. Jonny’s staring straight at him when he breaks, eyes all wide—blinking pretty and slow. 

"Fuck," he says helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut. A few moments of silence, then—"Please." He opens his eyes, swallows. "Fill me up. Blow your load in me." He says it all shy, self-conscious, and Patrick feels a fierce wave of possessiveness rush through him because Jonny's looking up at him, asking Patrick to nut in him even though Patrick knows it embarrasses him. 

"Gonna give it to you," Patrick promises, feeling all tender and scraped raw. How can Jonny blame Patrick for wanting to keep him on his cock all the time when he gets like _this,_ so fucking sweet? Patrick hauls Jonny’s hips up, makes the angle all sharp and devastating because it’s the grand fucking finale, baby—and Patrick’s gonna deliver. 

The most beautiful thing of all is that when he starts up the pump of his hips, Jonny’s the one who comes first, silent and shaking—slicking up his abs with spurts of come just from the drag of Patrick’s cock inside him. It’s heady fucking stuff, and the sight of it combined with the tight squeeze of Jonny’s hole around his dick while Jonny’s coming his brains out makes Patrick’s own orgasm rip through him, cock spurting his come deep into Jonny. 

He pulls out last minute even though it makes Jonny predictably hiss and dig his nails into Patrick in punishment, but it’s worth it because now he can mark up the outside, too, shaking his dick until every last drop is milked out of him. He surveys his handiwork with a sense of deep satisfaction. His jizz is splattered all over Jonny’s ass, getting right up in Jonny’s hole, all pale against the blush pink. _Like strawberries and cream_ , he thinks. He could lap it up, scoop his tongue right in—all salt and musk instead of sugar-sweet. His dick twitches at the thought even though he’s spent. 

“Can’t believe you got your jizz all over my ass,” Jonny mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He tries to glare blearily down at Patrick, but it doesn’t really work because he looks like he’s all drunk on come and cock. Patrick grins, rubbing the come into Jonny’s skin. 

“Wanted to mark you up,” he says unrepentantly. 

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Possessive macho dickhead,” he says, but Patrick sees the way he goes red. Plus, he could always just, like, close his legs, or wipe off the come himself, but he doesn’t. Patrick gathers up all the come in his palm with one hand and rubs over Jonny’s wet, over-sensitized hole with his other thumb. 

“Property of Patrick Kane, baby,” he says with a lecherous smile, tapping at the rim. Before Jonny can work himself into a huff, Patrick takes his gathered come and smears it across Jonny’s face, giving it a good rub, works it into the skin. “This too,” he smirks, swiping across Jonny’s come-stained cheeks. 

Jonny looks torn between wanting to punch him or wanting to slap him, so Patrick makes the decision for him by dropping a kiss onto Jonny’s lips. “Come on, let’s sleep,” he says, wrestling Jonny into the cocoon of his arms. 

“Fucking hate you,” Jonny grouses, but there’s no bite to it, and he even lets Patrick nuzzle into his neck. 

“That’s what you get for being such a prick today,” Patrick says cheerfully. He’s thankful he didn’t go with the original ‘murder-Jonny’ plan, because he’s pretty happy right now, Jonny all warm and loose against him, all full of his come and at least the tiniest bit more chilled out. All due to Patrick’s talented dick. 

“Whatever,” Jonny says, but he cuddles back into Patrick, and he doesn’t wash Patrick’s come off of his face or protest too much when Patrick slips his fingers into Jonny’s used hole. Oh yeah. Patrick totally won this one. 


End file.
